Truths of Great Value
by Bizarity
Summary: There are some things about Sherlock Holmes that John cannot mention in his blog. After living with Sherlock for six months, John is noticing some things about Sherlock, and about himself, that he doesn't fully understand.
1. Curiosity

_"A subtle thought that is in error may yet give rise to fruitful inquiry that can establish truths of great value." - _Isaac Asimov_  
><em>

There are some things about Sherlock Holmes that John cannot mention in his blog. He never reveals Sherlock's failed attempts to predict the fortune cookies they get from the Chinese take-away. Nor does he include any details about Sherlock's brother Mycroft. Sometimes he types these things up, but he always deletes them before publishing. Recently, he's been deleting a lot of references to Sherlock's clothes. The other day, he had to delete a paragraph about Sherlock's purple shirt. A small paragraph, but a paragraph nonetheless. John's never been interested in fashion before, but Sherlock's clothes fascinate him. He's always wearing so many of them; suit, coat, scarf and gloves or pyjamas and dressing gown. Even now, in the middle of summer, John has yet to see Sherlock's arms or legs uncovered. Even more astonishing, they've lived together for six months and John has never once bumped into Sherlock coming out of the bathroom with only a towel across his slim hips, never walked past Sherlock's open door while he was changing his shirt. Sherlock is always dressed, always covered up. Perhaps John is unconsciously mimicking Sherlock's behaviour, because he's been wearing his own dressing gown to and from the bathroom, making sure his door is closed when he gets changed. John's noticed, but he doesn't think anything of it.

One evening in August, John's on his way out the door to see Sarah. He's wearing a shirt and jacket, carrying a bottle of wine in one hand and a box of chocolates in the other. It's still sunny outside and hotter than John expected. He can already feel his body heat, trapped by the stiff collar and long sleeves.

"Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson's voice carries from the door of her flat.

"Just me, Mrs Hudson," John answers. "Did you need something?" He's left plenty of time to get to Sarah's, he can afford a quick conversation.

"Oh, no dear. Don't worry." She emerges into the hallway, smiling. "Off to see Sarah?" Her gaze is directed at the chocolates and the wine, giving him away. John nods. There is a moment where Mrs Hudson doesn't say anything and the smile has faded from her face. "Don't you think you're trying too hard, dear?" Alarmed at the worried look in Mrs Hudson's eyes, John tugs on his uncomfortable collar.

"Sorry?" He asks, unsure how to tackle the situation.

"Wine _and _chocolates?" Still puzzled, John frowns. She seems to have made a leap of logic somewhere, and John is struggling to keep up. It's a feeling he's very used to by now. "How long have you been seeing her?"

"A few months," he replies. Sherlock would envy the look Mrs Hudson is giving him, or laugh at him. Maybe both. It's a look making it utterly plain that she knows he's lying. "...Five," he admits after a moment. "Five months."

"You're spoiling her, Doctor," says Mrs Hudson. After all this time, she still doesn't call him John.

"I've got to go, Mrs Hudson, I'll be late." She nods and lets him go, still looking a little grim. Walking the few streets to Sarah's flat, John looks down at the chocolates and the wine. When they first started going out, he didn't take her presents. He took her to drinks, dinner, the circus. He paid, of course, but he didn't splash out on extras. In truth, he'd turned up empty-handed to her flat more often than they'd gone out. Now, though, he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her and not brought her something. Sherlock would know. Sherlock would be able to tell him exactly when he'd started talking Sarah presents, would probably be able to explain why he was doing it. John certainly didn't know.

Throughout his evening with Sarah, Mrs Hudson's words echo in John's mind. 'Don't you think you're trying too hard?' They'd chosen a restaurant near Sarah's flat and were sat outside in the setting sunlight. Though John has removed his jacket, he's still too hot. Sarah, on the other hand, is in a short, sleeveless dress and looks perfectly comfortable. The long sleeves of his shirt feel tight around his wrists. 'You're trying too hard,' says Mrs Hudson's voice in his head. Sarah is talking about something, John's not really listening. He nods occasionally and that seems to be enough. He looks down at his blue checked sleeves. If he wanted to dress up for Sarah wouldn't he be wearing less, rather than more? Certainly he had to admit that before he moved into 221B Baker Street, he'd worn a lot more short sleeved shirts and even polo shirts. If it wasn't Sarah influencing his dress sense, what was it?

"John?" Sarah taps his hand, bringing him back to their date. For the rest of the evening, he concentrates his attention on her, not wanting to drift off again. John walks her home from the restaurant but declines her offer to come upstairs. Sarah looks a little disappointed; it's not the first time and John pretends not to notice.

Sherlock is already in pyjamas and dressing gown when John gets home, the windows open to counter-act the summer heat still filling the flat. It's actually hotter than it is outside, and John wants nothing more than to strip down to boxers and a t-shirt. He doesn't, of course. Instead, he drags the grey armchair backwards towards the window and takes a seat. Sherlock is, predictably, stretched out on the couch, eyes closed but John knows he's not sleeping.

"Aren't you hot?" John asks. "It's twenty eight degrees outside." Opening his eyes, Sherlock scoffs.

"It was twenty eight degrees at two thirty this afternoon. It's now twenty four."

"You didn't answer the question," John points out.

"I'm fine." The tone of Sherlock's voice indicates the conversation is over.

* * *

><p>One week, and one solved double murder, later John is still wearing long sleeved shirts. He went out and bought himself a light cotton shirt with short sleeves, which remains on the floor of his bedroom in the same Marks and Spencer's bag he carried it home in. Every morning, he sees the bag and is reminded that something in his life is just a little bit off. For another week, he watches Sherlock more closely, listens out for the sounds of the shower turning on or off. Sometimes he even loiters in the doorway of his room, hoping to time it so he can watch Sherlock leave the bathroom. Every single time he manages this, Sherlock is fully dressed. It takes five successful glimpses of Sherlock, slightly damp curls the only sign of his recent activity, before John recognises that Sherlock is not going to walk out wrapped in a towel just because John wants him to.<p>

So he stops for a few days, focusing his energy on not wondering why he's so worked up about seeing Sherlock half dressed. The bag is still there, still letting him know that something is wrong. He tells himself he'll hang the shirt up, throw the bag away but he doesn't get around to it. One morning, standing in the shower, he squeezes his shampoo bottle over his hand and nothing comes out. He swears under his breath and remembers. He'd noticed the day before that he'd run out, he'd even popped to the shop to buy more. When he came home, though, Sherlock had been watching Judge Judy and yelling at the TV. John had joined him and forgotten to unpack his shopping. The shampoo he needs is still sitting in the kitchen. Annoyed, John looks over at Sherlock's shampoo. It's a brand he thinks is supposed to be for women, though he doubts Sherlock would care. He's reaching for it, telling himself that Sherlock won't mind (and that he, John Watson, is enough of a man to wear women's shampoo) when he has a better idea. Shutting off the shower, he reaches for his towel. A moment later, still slightly damp, John walks into the kitchen with his towel wrapped around his hips. He can hear the sound of the violin and knows Sherlock is in there.

He doesn't look up, but is sure he can feel Sherlock's gaze on his skin. He's rarely been so aware of his body. The towel is rough on his hips, there are water droplets sliding down his spine and clinging to his calves. Reaching down into his Tesco bag, he feels exposed. He's breaking some unwritten rule of 221B Baker Street and they both know it. Finally, shampoo in hand, he can't put it off any longer. He turns back to the door, taking in Sherlock's position as he turns. Sherlock isn't looking at him. His head is turned, his gaze on the wall. John's damp skin is suddenly cool. Returning to the bathroom, he finishes his shower and tries not to think about the sense of disappointment that washed over him in that moment.

Nothing about the rest of the day is noticeably different. John worries that Sherlock will react, even punish him for his transgression. He is nervous all day, waiting for the consequences of his audacity but nothing comes. He and Sherlock watch television, go for a walk through Regent's Park, then get fish and chips on the way home. John's half way through his fish when DI Lestrade walks through the door.

"Go away," says Sherlock, not looking up from his food. John turns to look at him and wonders if, finally, Sherlock's mood is reflecting the events earlier. He's always abrupt with Lestrade but not normally _this_ sharp.

"I've got a case," says Lestrade. He's standing solid in the doorway.

"It's burglary." The disdain in Sherlock's voice is palpable but Lestrade doesn't even wince. "Anyway, I'm eating."

"If it's only a burglary, it shouldn't matter," Lestrade points out. John smiles at that. Despite all Lestrade's protests, he does know Sherlock well.

"It _is_ only burglary and you don't need me." John can't tell if the little silence that follows this remark is tense or if he's imagining it.

"It isn't one burglary," Lestrade announces, "it's two, but nothing of value was taken." Sherlock props himself up against the armrest of the couch and looks at Lestrade for a long moment. "Tuesday morning, Mrs Lewis in the ground floor flat reported a burglary. We turned up and she told us the burglars took two cushions, her unfinished knitting and a large pot plant."

"What?" John asks, leaning forward. Lestrade looks at him and nods.

"Wednesday morning, Mrs Ives, on the floor above, calls and reports a burglary. In her case, they took a lamp, four cookery books and a half load of clean sheets." John frowns, but notices Sherlock is smiling.

"You should check the coffee in the second flat." Lestrade is frowning too now. John turns in the chair so that he's at a diagonal to Sherlock and Lestrade.

"Check it?" he asks. "For-"

"The coffee," Sherlock interrupts. "Or the tea, or the milk. Something that would be used frequently."

"What am I checking it for, Sherlock?" John watches Sherlock's face slowly curl into a smug smile.

"Poison," he announces with a gleam in his eyes. Lestrade turns without a word and John hears the front door crash shut a moment later.

"What just happened?" John asks. Suddenly it doesn't matter that he is too hot. This is the effect Sherlock has on him, makes him forget physical discomfort and pain because there's adrenaline thrumming through his veins.

"Hm?" Sherlock has already moved on.

"Why would there be poison in the coffee?" John clarifies.

"Oh, that. The first break in was the 1st floor couple looking for something. They didn't find it but they'd already broken the lock so they had to make it look like a robbery. They fooled the police, but not the husband. Husband obviously didn't like that they were making trouble, so he breaks in the next night to lace their coffee with something deadly." Sherlock doesn't look at John as he rattles off this explanation. John just stares at him until he looks round.

"Amazing," he says and he sees the smile tug at the corner of Sherlock's mouth. He doesn't ask how Sherlock worked it out. He isn't in the mood for a lesson and he's not sure Sherlock is either. Nonetheless, in that instant their relationship returns to normal. Or, to what has always passed for normal within 221B Baker Street, anyway.


	2. Inquiry

**Inquiry**

For three weeks, life in 221B Baker Street continues as normal. They spend four days racing around London on the trail of an arsonist Sherlock is convinced is connected to Moriarty. Between cases, Sherlock sinks into boredom and John still hasn't found a hiding place for his gun where Sherlock won't find it. John returns to wearing his dressing gown to and from the bathroom and Sherlock, of course, hasn't changed his habits at all. The summer heat dies away quickly, making way for a surprisingly gloomy September.

"Thai tonight?" Sherlock asks him one Friday afternoon.

"Not for me." John is in the kitchen making himself a cup of tea. "I'm taking Sarah out for dinner." He isn't surprised when Sherlock says nothing. A few hours later he's showered, dressed and ready to walk out the door. Smart shoes, smart trousers, comfortable jumper over an uncomfortable shirt.

"No gift?" Sherlock asks, emphasis on the last word and face twisting into a sneer. Since Mrs Hudson's little talk, John's been taking gifts less and less often. Sarah doesn't seem to mind.

"Nope," he answers.

"Pick something up on your way." John stops checking his wallet and looks over at Sherlock.

"Sorry?"

"I said pick something up on your way."

"Why?" John asks, voice pitching higher.

"Because I'm the world's only consulting detective and you should listen to me," says Sherlock. "You're going to be late." John looks at his watch and Sherlock is right. After a quick goodbye, he takes off.

Despite himself, he's looking out for a chocolate shop or a florist that's still open. He's halfway to the restaurant they'd booked when he finally passes a Clinton's Cards. Inside, he bypasses the cards and makes straight for the gift aisle. Glancing around in a rush, John wrinkles his nose. There are no flowers and no chocolates. There is champagne, but that would be weird when they have nothing to celebrate. He resigns himself to looking at the other gifts, rapidly rejecting a mug with Sarah's name on it as too unromantic; a cushion with 'the one I love' in bright red letters makes him flush uncomfortably. Everything he looks at is ridiculous. A pair of keyrings which fit together to make a heart (with optional engraving), a set of 'Mr & Mrs' passport covers, a snowglobe with hearts instead of snow falling on the heads of a hapless and expressionless couple on a park bench. Shaking his head, he retreats. It would be better to ignore Sherlock than to get Sarah any of these gifts. He's on his way out when he spots a section of half price soft toys. The choice is limited, mostly bears with names like 'Alan' and 'Vince' embroidered on their t-shirts. Hiding behind a 'Congrads' bear in a mortar board, though, there is a plain grey bear holding red roses. Sarah isn't really the soft toy type, John suspects, he's certainly never seen one in her flat. He can still see Sherlock's mysterious expression, hear him saying 'you should listen to me'. So he takes the toy up to the counter.

Sarah is waiting for him outside the restaurant, carrying what looks like a gift bag. John rushes over, gives her a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Sorry, am I late?" he asks. Shaking her head, she alerts the waiter they are ready to be seated.

"I wasn't sure if you'd remember," she says once they're sitting down. She gestures to the Clinton's bag now at John's feet. John tries not to show his confusion. His smile feels awkward on his face and he wonders if Sarah can tell. Sherlock would notice, but Sarah is no Sherlock. She pushes the gift bag across the table to him. John reaches for it, turns the tag over and reads:

'_John, happy six months, Sarah'. _

Feeling idiotic, John counts months from 'The Blind Banker' in his head. They've been together for six months. They've been together for six months and John didn't notice. Silently thanking Sherlock for the tip-off John hands Sarah the Clinton's bag.

"I didn't wrap it," he says, knowing he has no excuse. Now that she's really about to open it he wonders if he's made a terrible mistake. To distract himself from awful moment he's sure is about to come, he opens the gift bag and pulls out a shirt. Good quality, a nice shade of green. He likes it and is pleased he won't have to wear a shirt he hates just to appease her. Unfolding it, he notices the short sleeves and his mind jumps back three weeks to the day he decided to test Sherlock's reaction. The bitter taste of adrenaline is already in his mouth when he looks up to see Sarah's reaction to his own gift. She's holding the little bear in one hand, fingers of the other hand touching the petals of the rose gently.

"He's lovely, John," she says. John feels a stab of guilt about how little thought he put into it.

"Well, I'm glad." He tries to smile. "The shirt's great. Great!" He hopes he's convinced her. Champagne comes with dinner and John realises she planned this because she wasn't sure he would. She was right. He can hardly taste his steak but tells her it's perfect. After sharing a desert, they walk back to Sarah's flat hand in hand. London is beautiful at night but all John can think is how wrong this feels. Not Sarah, who is beautiful and clever and makes him laugh. John knows he's the problem. He feels like he's deceiving her. They pause for a moment outside Sarah's flat before she invites him upstairs. John turns his phone off, because she will not let it slide if Sherlock phones in the middle of the night tonight. It shouldn't matter; if anything comes up Sherlock can bounce ideas off Lestrade, or his skull. Closing Sarah's front door behind him, John tries not to hope that unusual criminal activity will wait until tomorrow.

John doesn't leave Sarah's flat until the next afternoon, already wearing his new shirt. It's too small, but he's too polite to ask if he can exchange it for a bigger size. Sarah had told him he looked good, wrapping her fingers around the muscles of his forearms. It's not her reaction he's worried about. 221B is empty when he gets there and he feels a slight pang, wondering if Sherlock's on a case without him. Craving a cup of tea, he finds a note under the only clean mug.

_Out to see Mycroft. Back for dinner. SH_

_P.S. No need to thank me._

John smiles. He walks around the empty flat, wondering at the quiet. It's not often he's here and Sherlock isn't. John goes out to work, to the shops, to see Sarah or Harry or occasional other friends, leaving Sherlock alone in the flat. Sherlock, on the other hand, leaves mostly for cases or food and usually John goes with him. Feeling a rush of liberty, John walks back to the kitchen, unbuttoning his shirt as he goes. He takes it off and stuffs it into the washing machine with a Persil tablet.

It is late when Sherlock returns, John is dressed in the familiar long sleeved shirt and comfortable jumper combination. He left his favourite jumper, the cream cabled one, at Sarah's by accident so he's wearing the thinner green one.

"I made curry," John says when Sherlock has flung his suit jacket over the back of a chair.

"Thank you," says Sherlock, stretching himself out on their couch. John sighs, then gets up, bowing to the inevitable.

"Got a case?" John asks. Sherlock shakes his head, so John steps into the kitchen to plate the rice and curry. In three trips, he brings two plates of lamb curry, a beer and a coffee. Sherlock drinks coffee with everything and John has long since given up trying to understand it.

"How was Sarah?" Sherlock asks between bites. John is always happy to see him eat.

"You could have told me it was my sixth month anniversary," says John, though he's not really annoyed. There is a moment of silence and John looks over to see if Sherlock is too busy eating to respond. Sherlock is looking at neither the food nor John.

"You bought her something," Sherlock deduces, just as John is starting to be concerned by the lengthy silence.

"Yes, I did." John is glad he doesn't have to tell Sherlock what he bought for a moment before it occurs to him that Sherlock might somehow know. Uncomfortable, he takes a large bite of curry and nearly chokes. "How's Mycroft?"he asks, in an attempt to cut off any frightening insights Sherlock might be inclined to reveal.

"Interfering as usual." Sherlock scowls.

"Trying to get you to take a case?" Mycroft is always sending his brother cases, which Sherlock very rarely deigns to take. The fact that the brothers bothered to meet in person suggests to John that Mycroft is probably pushing harder than usual.

"In my personal life," Sherlock answers, still scowling. Astonished, John doesn't know how to react. He isn't aware Sherlock _has_ a personal life. Wary of requesting more information, he says nothing. If Sherlock has a secret personal life, it's probably secret for a reason and he won't appreciate John prying. He takes his unfinished curry back into the kitchen. The washing machine light is flashing so he takes his new shirt out and hangs it on the radiator drying rack. Back in the living room, he focuses on his beer. Sherlock is silent, reading or studying or possibly just thinking while staring absently at the papers in front of him, John isn't sure. They spend a few hours together in silence before John leaves Sherlock to whatever it is he's decided is more important than sleep.

* * *

><p>John is woken early next morning by his phone ringing close to his ear, vibrating against the wood of his bedside table.<p>

"Sherlock?" he asks, before he's fully awake. He can't think of anyone else who would call him this early.

"No, John, it's Sarah." John rubs sleep out of his eyes and clears his throat. "My dad just phoned. He and mum are going to stop in at my place for lunch on their way home from the airport." She pauses. John may not be the only consulting detective in the world but even he can tell what is coming. "Why don't you come over? It's a chance for you to meet them and you know they aren't in London often." John agrees and the details are quickly settled. Unable to get back to sleep, John wraps himself in his dressing gown and makes his way to the bathroom for a shower. Sherlock is already up, or he never went to bed. He's watching morning television, the volume turned up so high John is surprised he couldn't hear it from upstairs.

"Your mistress, obviously," John hears before he shuts the bathroom door. In the shower, with hot water washing away the last traces of a not entirely peaceful night's sleep, John starts to realise what he has agreed to. Meeting Sarah's parents, the day after their sixth month anniversary. It feels like they've stepped carefully over a boundary and been launched into full speed. He steps out of the shower, shaking water from his hair. The way he's thinking isn't fair to Sarah. She isn't manipulative, she hasn't been waiting until she was sure of them before throwing all the trappings of a serious relationship at him. Back in his bedroom, he dries off and dresses in his smart trousers and shoes before staring into his wardrobe. Judging by the light streaming through his bedroom window, the weather has turned again. John was going to be uncomfortable enough, meeting Sarah's parents, he didn't want to be wearing an uncomfortable shirt and worried about whether or not he was sweating.

It takes him a moment before he comes, reluctantly, to the conclusion that the best thing he can do is wear the shirt Sarah gave him. It isn't until he reaches the door of the living room that he realises he's come downstairs wearing only trousers and shoes. He fights the urge to run back upstairs and grab his dressing gown, telling himself that it's ridiculous. He should be able to walk across the living room shirtless without worrying he's going to freak out his brilliant, eccentric house mate. Sherlock is the most logical man John's ever met, how could a little bare skin possibly be enough to discomfit him? Telling himself that Sherlock won't even notice, and trying not to wonder why that makes his chest feel hollow, John walks purposefully towards the kitchen.

He doesn't look up until he's finished buttoning the shirt. Sherlock's head is turned away, his gaze fixed on the wall. The television is still blaring. John stands, waiting for Sherlock to return his attention to the show. Nothing happens. John stands there for three or four minutes and Sherlock doesn't take his eyes off the wall. The moment stretches out until John cannot bear it. He walks to the television and turns it off. Sherlock _still_ doesn't look at him.

"What do you think of this shirt?" John asks. He has forgotten about Sarah and her parents. He wants Sherlock to look at him. Slowly, Sherlock's head turns and John's breath catches painfully in his throat. He feels itchy everywhere. Sherlock's bright eyes are on him but he says nothing. "Well?" John prompts, amazed he can speak.

"You want to know if Sarah will like it," Sherlock clarifies. John opens his mouth to correct him but Sherlock isn't listening. "You know I'm married to my work, John. I have no experience relevant to your question."

"So tell me what _you _think," John says, his shoulders squared. Now that he's broached the subject he can't back down.

"I am not a woman," Sherlock points out.

"You still have opinions," says John quietly. "You feel sexual attraction." He isn't at all sure of this, but unlike Sherlock he doesn't have to be right about everything. Sitting down when John is standing, Sherlock looks almost small, almost vulnerable.

"It would be pointless to express sexual attraction when I cannot -" Sherlock begins. John knows what he is going to say and cuts him off.

"Doesn't mean you can't appreciate it," he says, repeating something Sherlock had said to him months ago. Sherlock's eyes go dark for half a second and then they are staring at each other, neither of them moving. John can feel himself breathing. He thinks he can see Sherlock's chest rising and falling underneath his constant formal layers. Finally, Sherlock gives a quick nod. John turns to hide the grin that he's not sure is really appropriate.


	3. Discovery

John is woken by the persistent high-pitched ringing of his mobile phone. He fumbles on the bedside table for a minute before realising he can feel vibrations against his hip. At the exact moment he jams his fingers into his trouser pocket, the phone falls silent. The rush to answer an incoming call over, John opens his eyes and stares up at the ceiling. His head aches. The night before comes back to him in increasing waves of image and sound. They'd been helping Lestrade with a kidnapping case, running half way across London before catching up to the surprisingly young and female kidnapper. Even Sherlock had to admit that was statistically unlikely. Inexhaustible, Sherlock had followed Lestrade as he took the criminal into custody and sent the victim to the hospital. They'd stayed awake to give their statements at Scotland Yard and dawn had been gently touching the horizon by the time they reached Baker Street and John had fallen into bed fully clothed. John rubs his eyes and forces them to focus on the phone. He notices simultaneously that it's 11:16 am and that he has eight missed called. All from Sarah. With a groan, he hits the button to return the call and pulls himself into a sitting position against the headboard.

"Sarah, I'm -" he begins.

"John? Where were you? Are you alright?" Her voice is higher than usual – concerned, taut.

"I'm fine. We were chasing a kidnapper – I had to turn my phone off. I'm sorry." There is a long silence as John waits for her to say something. He can hear her breathing. She's been good about this in the past, better than John has any right to expect. The silence now is unnerving but not unpredictable.

"Are you free for lunch?" Now, her voice sounds choked. John doesn't need Sherlock's experience to tell him what's coming. He agrees to meet her at half past twelve at a café across the street from the clinic.

An hour later, showered and dressed in fresh clothes, John walks down Baker Street surrounded by late October sunshine. The movement is easing the stiffness of an uncomfortable few hours sleep and the fresh air eases the headache. All in all, it's an oddly pleasant walk that John feels almost guilty for enjoying. Though he reaches the café ten minutes early, Sarah is already seated at a table by the window. Two large cups of coffee dominate the small table. As he approaches, John can see that her make up is less neatly applied than normal and those dark circles under her eyes are a sign of either a sleepless night or badly smudged mascara. Despite it, she looks beautiful with the sun streaming in from the window and lighting her face.

"You should have let me buy those," John says, offering her his usual smile as he takes the seat opposite. She doesn't smile back and he sighs to himself, knowing that there is no chance of improving the mood. "Sarah, I am so sorry." He means it. He's always sorry.

"I can't do this any more, John." With that, she's on the verge of tears. All John wants to do is wrap her in his arms and never let go. He straightens his back against the chair. He won't make this any harder for her than it already is. "I can't stay up all night ringing you, wondering what's happened to you and wondering whether this will be the time Sherlock doesn't turn up to get you out of it." John can think of half a dozen things to say to this that would make her laugh if she weren't about to cry. "You're a wonderful man, John, but I'm not cut out for this." There are tears in her eyes now and she can't bring herself to look at him. "I'm sorry."

"You don't need to be sorry," John says. He opens and closes a fist to stop himself reaching out to take her hand. "It's alright." He tries to smile. He leaves after that and Sarah lets him go, though neither of them has finished their coffee. There is nothing left to say. There is nothing of hers in 221B Baker Street and John hasn't left anything at the flat except some aftershave that he can do without. He'll see her at the clinic, of course, but the relationship is most definitely over. No loose ends to tie up. It's almost a relief. When he reaches home, John stands outside the door of 221B. He's not sure he wants to go in and have Sherlock deduce the end of his relationship. Eventually he decides that it's inevitable and that he has nowhere else to go. Besides, he has a packet of chocolate hobnobs in the cupboard and he's dying for a cup of tea.

"Lestrade called." Sherlock starts talking as soon as John reaches the one creaky stair. "I was right about the victims family, of course. No problems there so long as-" He looks up as John enters the room and stops. His eyes flick from side to side, taking in the details of John's face. "Oh." John nods and gives a flat sort of smile. "Are you...alright? I could ask Mrs Hudson to make some tea." From Sherlock, this is almost a kind gesture.

"I'll make it," he answers. "Coffee for you?"

John emerges from the kitchen ten minutes later with a plate of chocolate biscuits and a mug for each of them. Sherlock has turned the telly on and John settles onto the couch beside him to watch an old episode of Jonathan Creek. Sherlock keeps up a running commentary of the various faulty deductions and ridiculous guesses. John isn't paying enough attention to follow the story. He can feel Sherlock's gaze on him at regular intervals. He never turns to meet Sherlock's eyes but he doesn't insist he stop, either. They don't talk about what happened. Sherlock has already worked out a version of events and has enough sense not to press John for details he might have got wrong.

* * *

><p>Life continues as normal for months. John sometimes goes on dates but no longer attempts to turn any of them into a relationship. His new life as assistant and blogger to the world's only consulting detective isn't compatible with long term romance. Sherlock simply takes up too much of his time and makes his life too unpredictable. He reminds Harry, and occasionally himself, that he's happy with that. The blog is becoming popular, helped along by a few high profile cases making the papers. It gets almost two thousand views when he puts up a new case and 'fans' have started to approach Sherlock in the street. The look on his face the first time an attractive young woman asked Sherlock to sign her shirt is not something John ever plans to forget. Sherlock hasn't changed, though. He still treats Mrs Hudson as his housekeeper, Lestrade as a minor inconvenience and members of the public as idiots. He still wants the blog to be focused more on the deductions than the adventures and so John still finds himself deleting the odd sentence about Sherlock's new leather gloves or oversized umbrella.<p>

John sits at the desk, fingers idle on the keyboard of his laptop. He is supposed to be writing up a case of suspected murder which Sherlock proved to be a suicide pact. What he's actually doing is watching sheet after sheet of rain cascade down the window. It is the end of February and it has been raining for what feels like a fortnight. All of John's coats are perpetually damp and he's actually grateful Sherlock got an umbrella large enough to shelter the two of them. The flat is disturbingly quiet without Sherlock in it. John has tried turning the telly on but Come Dine With Me is only interesting when Sherlock is trying to predict the scores. Similarly, he could put some music on but all he really feels like listening to is Sherlock playing something suitably atmospheric on the violin. The rain is coming down hard enough to sound almost like thunder.

A separate, more distinct crash has John leaning towards the window convinced it really was thunder when he hears muffled shouting coming from downstairs. He hurries to the door and pushes it open.

"John! Oh. John!" Mrs Hudson's voice is shrill with something that sounds like panic. John has never heard Mrs Hudson panic about anything and in seconds he is on the stairs. Mrs Hudson is standing in the hallway with the door wide open, rain blowing in and soaking the welcome mat. Behind her is a black cab waiting at the pavement with the driver half-out the door. More importantly, leaning against Mrs Hudson with his long arm draped across her shoulders for support is Sherlock. He's drenched from head to foot, his hair slicked in long straight lines across his forehead. Water is dripping from his coat to form a puddle around his shoes. As he gets closer, John can hear Sherlock's teeth chattering. He quickly get his shoulder under Sherlock's other arm, feeling the shock of cold water seeping into his shirt. John wraps an arm around Sherlock's back and tugs, encouraging him to take his weight off Mrs Hudson and transfer it to his own shoulder. Sherlock obliges but his movements are slow and unsteady. Pressed close to his side, John can feel the shivering in Sherlock's muscles. He shoves his free hand into his pocket and hands Mrs Hudson a crumpled twenty pound note.

"Pay the cab, Mrs Hudson. I'll get him upstairs." Without waiting to see if Mrs Hudson listens, John starts to guide Sherlock towards the stairs. Sherlock's feet are uncoordinated but John's arm is firm and together they manage the steps. "Sherlock." Sherlock's eyes are open but are focused on the remaining steps. "Sherlock, what happened?" John badly needs to know if Sherlock is injured, but his voice is completely calm. He is faintly aware of the sound of Mrs Hudson arguing with the cabbie but he leaves her to deal with it, his attention fixed on getting Sherlock safely to the flat.

"Fell in the canal," Sherlock answers after an agonising pause and the last three steps. "Pushed, really." John thinks he sees an attempted smile but he doesn't return it. It would be funny, perhaps, if Sherlock's lips weren't the same alarming shade of white as his skin. John holds Sherlock closer as they stagger through the door together and guides him in the direction of the bathroom.

Once there, John props Sherlock against the sink and turns the shower on as hot as it will go, suddenly grateful he gave in and turned the central heating on hours ago. The water scalds his hand as he quickly fumbles with the dial to get it to a more acceptable level. He turns to Sherlock who is fumbling with the buttons on his coat. "Get undressed and get in the shower," John instructs him. "Can you manage that?" Sherlock nods and, as if to prove it, managed to get the first button open though his hands are clearly shaking. "I'll get you a towel and some dry clothes," John says on his way out, shutting the door behind him.

"Is he alright?" John turns and sees Mrs Hudson waiting in the living room, more worried than he's ever seen her. He walks over and gives her a quick hug.

"He'll be fine, Mrs Hudson. He just needs to get warm." She nods, her thin lips still pressed tightly together.

"What can I do to help?" John considers this but before he's made up his mind what to say, Mrs Hudson is heading towards the door. "He'll need food and rest," she says and John can't help but smile at the way she's telling him his own job. "Once you've got him warm and dry, you bring him down to me. I'll get some nice stew ready. He'll need to get his strength back."

"Sounds perfect, Mrs Hudson," John answers, smiling. He watches her hurry down the stairs to start cooking, pain in her hip forgotten in her hurry to look after her boy. He feels his stomach do a peculiar little flip and remembers he too is on an errand.

Sherlock's bedroom is amazingly tidy, compared to the chaos of the living room. A dry towel and his dressing gown hang on hooks on the back of the door. John grabs both then moves to the wardrobe looking for clothes. There are suit jackets and coats and plenty of shirts but nothing which looks comfortable or cosy. John shouldn't be surprised, he's never seen Sherlock dressed in anything that wasn't immaculate. After pawing through the coat hangers for the second time, he admits defeat and is about to go get one of his own jumpers, though he knows it will be comically small, when he spots what looks like Sherlock's pyjama bottoms peeking out from under the pillow. Turning the pillow over and leaving it half flopped over the bedside table, John finds not only long pyjama bottoms but a long-sleeved pyjama top made of remarkably soft, worn cotton. Adding both to the bundle in his arms, he rushes back to the bathroom.

The sound of the shower has stopped, so John pushes the door open and reveals Sherlock standing in the middle of the small bathroom. His hair is still plastered to his face but the colour has returned to his lips and cheeks and he looks almost as alert as ever. He is also completely naked. Crisis situation or not, John cannot control his gaze as it moved slowly down from Sherlock's face. He takes in the smooth chest, slim hips and long muscled legs. His eyes cover every inch of Sherlock's pale, exposed skin. It takes almost a minute for John to realise what he is doing. Fire sweeps through him and he feels his heart racing in his chest. He drops the clothes and towel on the bathroom floor and retreats, eyes averted. His hand, still on the bathroom door handle, pulls it closed behind him. He intends, as much as he's conscious of intending anything, to flee to his room where he will shut the door and not come out until he is convinced he can look Sherlock in the eye without blushing. He doesn't make it nearly that far. He all but collapses outside the bathroom, leaning heavily on the wall to the right of the door. His heart is pounding in his ears, making it impossible to hear anything. Sherlock might be trying to talk to him. He starts to wonder if there's any chance Sherlock missed what just happened but dismisses the question almost before he's formed it. Sherlock notices everything.

John waits. He leans against the wall, waiting for his heart rate to slow down. He calls himself every name he can think of and lectures himself silently about being a complete bloody fool. He closes his eyes, hoping deep breaths will help calm him down, but the image of Sherlock's naked body is startling behind his eyelids. He doubts be will ever be able to forget it, even if he could convince himself he wanted to. Opening his eyes again, he finds the image replaced by the real Sherlock, dressed in pyjamas and dressing gown. He hadn't heard the door open or close or Sherlock step out into the hall.

"John." Sherlock is watching him, his gaze intent on John's face. John cannot move.

"I -" He doesn't know what to say. How do you apologise to your flatmate for accidentally seeing him naked and then staring at him when you should have been tending to an emergency?

"You've never seen me undressed before," Sherlock comments. He doesn't seem to be angry. He looks much the same as he always does except for his wet hair. The same, except John is now painfully aware of the body beneath the layers of soft cotton. Sherlock's eyes move rapidly, taking in John's entire body now instead of just his face. John feels as if he is on display and wishes he could take cover from those eyes but it would be hypocritical to object, under the circumstances. "You found it arousing." John is in no position to deny it. Even if he were, when has Sherlock ever accepted that he was wrong? John should say something but words have utterly abandoned him.

Sherlock takes a step forward and John puts out an arm, wanting to keep Sherlock a safe distance away. He has never objected to Sherlock crowding his personal space before, but now the sweet smell of Sherlock's soap is in his nostrils and he doesn't want to ruin what they have. Sherlock takes another step. To John's surprised, when the soft material of Sherlock's top brushes his palm he doesn't push away. Instead, John's fingers curl into a fist bringing a handful of cotton into his palm. Sherlock doesn't jerk away. John's life goes into slow motion as he pulls his fistful of Sherlock's top towards him. Sherlock follows gracefully, apparently a lot less surprised by this turn of events than John feels. Then John is lifting his head, closing his eyes and seeking Sherlock's lips with his own. It startles him when he finds them and comes as a complete shock when they open against his mouth, allowing his tongue to pass between them and brush against Sherlock's.

The inside of Sherlock's mouth is warm. John's fist is caught between their chests, still holding tight to the handful of material. It isn't until John feels Sherlock's hand against his hip that he realises he can let go. He slides his hand over Sherlock's waist to his lower back, urging his body closer. A surprised-pleased huff of air escapes into the kiss when Sherlock offers no resistance. They kiss for what could be hours and yet could never be long enough. It is Sherlock who pulls away, his face flushed and his lips almost red.

"So, doctor, am I recovered?" His deep voice is smoother than John has ever heard it. He offers a thin wrist to John who takes it and feels the pulse beat against his fingers. It's racing, much like John's, but strong.

"Perfectly healthy," John announces, meeting Sherlock's eyes with some trepidation. They are grey in the dim light of the February evening and the pupils are wide and dark. John counsels himself not to read anything into the look Sherlock is giving him. Anyone's pupils would be that size in this dark hallway.

"Then I suggest we take this to my bedroom." John's hand is still around Sherlock's wrist and he finds himself stepping away from the wall to follow as Sherlock tries to withdraw. These are not words John ever thought he would hear Sherlock say. Certainly not to him.

"I thought you were married to your work," he says but he is nodding eagerly as he follows Sherlock down the hall.

"We already work together," Sherlock reminds him as he guides John into his bedroom and shuts the door behind them.


End file.
